Taking Stock
bought me Crow , a book of poems by Ted Hughes, after I mentioned it’s something I’ve been meaning to read.
    To be honest, I was a little surprised when Sam brought me the sneakers. I hadn’t expected to see him anymore.
     
    *
     
    When I was a kid, I discovered I could play catch with myself by throwing a tennis ball at the sloped roof of our shed. I’d play for hours, never able to anticipate where the ball would go once it bounced off the shingles. The empty lot across the street was always filled with kids throwing balls, but the pressure to catch one thrown by another person was too much. In the backyard there was just me, and my determination to get better. We only stayed in that apartment one summer, and in later years I missed the shed.
    That sounds like a sad story, but telling it to Sam, I can only laugh.
    Sam scratches his chin. “Within this anecdote may lie the true reason you’re not attending my dinner party tonight. Tell me. Did you throw with your right hand, or your left?”
    “My right. I’m right-handed.”
    “Oh. Never mind, then.”
    “Why? What does that have to do with anything?”
    “I’m thinking of a study I was reading about the other day. They found that left-handed people are more likely to experience feelings of apprehension and self-doubt when faced with new situations. For lefties, the right hemisphere of the brain is dominant, and apparently that’s the half responsible for most negative emotions.”
    “Well, I was born left-handed, but Mom kept switching stuff to my right hand when I was a baby. She didn’t want me to be a leftie in a world built for right-handed people.”
    Sam whistles. “Goodness.”
    “I have a right-handed body and a left-handed brain.”
    “You’re screwed up.”
    “I don’t even know which side of my brain I’m supposed to be using!”
    “I guess that’s your answer, then. That’s what’s wrong with you. I understand now why you declined my dinner invitation. You have things you need to sort out.”
    “No. I defy my biology. I’ll come.”
    Sam grins.
    “But don’t tell anyone I was in a psych ward, okay?”
    His grin fades a little. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
    “It shouldn’t be. But it is.”
    In attendance at the dinner are Sam, a bunch of other middle-aged people, and me. A few of them glance at me askance, but nobody reacts like Gord did. As for Gord, he’s sitting near the wine, alone.
    I don’t have much experience making small talk with men and women twice my age. For that matter, I don’t have much experience making small talk. I’m not sure where to start, or whether I want to. My chest feels particularly tight. I hang out near a basket of flatbread.
    Sam walks over, sipping from a glass of wine. “Hey, Sheldon. Glad you came.” He turns to a guy standing nearby. “Ted, have you met Sheldon?”
    Ted shakes his head, and comes over. “Hey.”
    “Hi.”
    “This is the first day of Sheldon’s new social life,” Sam says.
    Ted’s eyebrows raise. “Oh? Congratulations.”
    I force a chuckle.
    Sam says, “Are you enjoying the appetizer, Sheldon? I made it especially for you.”
    “It’s good bread.”
    “Not just any bread. It’s unleavened bread. And see that bottle over there? That’s wine.”
    “Yep.”
    “Do you know what they ate at the Last Supper?”
    “Wine and bread?”
    “Bingo.”
    I glance around. “Where’s Jesus?”
    He pokes me in the chest. “Right here. And your crucifixion is tomorrow morning. The actual hour is flexible—you can show up at your convenience. But you’ll be nailed to the cross of customer service.” He sips some wine. “I got you a job.”
    “Really? Where?”
    “The grocery store down the road.”
    “Spend Easy?”
    “Yep. I know someone there who’s putting in a good word for you. Do you have much you can put on a résumé?”
    “Not really.”
    “Well, write one, and include whatever you can think of. Bring it in and ask for the manager. Don’t

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